We Have This Hope

Emily Curzon
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WHTH exists to equip others in the art of remembering God’s work in their lives and the practice of telling others about it. wehavethishope.substack.com

  1. Aug 28

    So I Won't Forget...Summer ‘26 Edition

    Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a licensed therapist turned writer, speaker, and theology student. In the early mornings and middle hours of my day, you can find me in my office (or a nearby coffee shop) writing about hope, grief, spiritual formation, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. I speak and preach occasionally, too. Find out more about all of that at www.emilycurzon.com. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for almost 3 years called So I Won’t Forget. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and it’s the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline—something I talk about a lot. This series is my most personal writing and the thing readers seem to love the most. I hope you’ll stick around! Prefer to listen? Tune into the audio narration of this post. You can find it right here in the Substack app or wherever you listen to the We Have This Hope podcast. 🤎🎧🎙️ Alternate titles for today’s essays are as follows: How Not to Take a Sabbatical Things I Did This Summer Instead of Writing Or my personal favorite… I Tried to Be Laid Back About It Friends, I’m delighted to be plucking away at the keyboard right now and I’m holding your faces, or perhaps your Substack profile pictures, in my mind as I launch back into a work that I’ve come to love so dearly. It would not be something I delight to call “work” without readership, so if your eyes are seeing this, you’re a gem in my book. You may have noticed I took a break from the regular monthly repetition of So I Won’t Forget. Somewhere in late June, I decided that the kids needed my fullest attention and maybe I needed my fullest attention, too. No one is forcing you to do this, Emily. And whoever it was that whispered that in my ear like an old friend was spot on. Adding a few weeks of space has landed me squarely in the place I want to be with a tried and true discipline—wanting so badly to get back to it. And so let’s do it, shall we? This is the END OF SUMMER 2026 and here are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…Put your worries aside! We’re in London! These hilarious and precious words fell verbatim from the lips of my 8 year old son as he strolled, arms swinging, down a random street in London. Where he learned an expression like “put your worries aside” is beyond me and probably in a book somewhere, but I’m not complaining. In that moment, his father and I needed the wisdom and the reminder. We were, in fact, in London doing things we’d dreamed of doing with our kids when they were babies and the thought of ever traveling abroad again seemed l-i-g-h-t-y-e-a-r-s away. When we got married, both of us had traveled internationally enough to know that nothing shapes a worldview like travel. You can hear stories and read books about God’s good and big world, but until you see parts of it with your own sleep deprived eyes, you’ll always subtly think Broken Arrow, Oklahoma is the center of the universe. I found out how tiny and insulated my world was in a dump in Guatemala City when I was 16 years old and at a medical clinic in a field 3 hours outside of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania when I was 18 and on the beach of the Baltic Sea after the baptism of a Russian-Estonian believer when I was 21. This kind of travel fundamentally changed me and I’ve dreamt of it for our kids since they were a twinkle in my eye. I have to interrupt myself now and admit that our trip to London was not a mission trip in the slightest even though the UK heatwave did its best to remind us of times we felt perpetually and inescapably sweaty in the name of Jesus. This trip was for fun and for a few weeks we had a lot it. It was also to get our kids out of their comfort zones and we checked that box the first trek through the London tube system carrying all our luggage after sleeping less than 4 hours in a 24 hour period. They flew further, walked longer, stayed up later, and used every mode of transportation we could creatively muster. They slept in a hotel, a centuries-old farmhouse on the grounds of an old castle, and in each others’ laps on an airplane. They walked where kings, queens, theologians and scholars have governed and worshipped since the 12th century and they ate burgers at a local pub after traipsing through a creek all afternoon. We call this kind of travel well-rounded. I don’t remember when this conversation happened, but at one point on the trip, my husband looked at me and said: “This is the hardest trip we’ll ever take them on.” Are you kidding me, I thought. This is about as cushy of an international trip you can take. “But think how much more grit they will have on the next one…” he reminded me. “Every trip we take them on, they’ll be that much more resilient.” Gosh, I hope he’s right. He usually is. Of the many things we’ve said we want to instill in our kids, curiosity and grit are at the top of the list. Yes, faith. Yes, kindness. Yes, responsibility. But it’s curiosity that invites people into the life of faith in Jesus and grit that prepares them to partner with God in building his kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. And if that’s not what I want for my kids—heck, for myself—then what business do I have dragging them across an ocean on a trip that may eventually be a fuzzy memory or, at best, a memory they claim to recall because of the 4000+ photos we took of them on it. Depending on how you look at it, we took a big trip or we took a small trip. It cost us things we can measure (dollars) and things we can’t measure (my pre-trip sanity). But what about the growth potential? What about the return on investment that we can’t yet know? If the payout becomes people who ask good questions and don’t pretend to know everything or people resilient enough to pursue the majesty and goodness of the God who put them in a BIG WIDE WORLD or people courageous enough to love their neighbors across the globe…then by golly, put your worries aside and plan the next one. #2…Overstimulated Moms, Unite! This list is based on true events. The names of contributors have been excluded to protect the innocent. You might be an overstimulated mom if…you’ve ever hosted a ministry meeting in your house after taking 8 kids to the pool and it turned out to be “kind of a low key day.” You might be an overstimulated mom if…a science podcast blaring, an electric keyboard banging, a dog barking, and you’re wondering why the person you’re on the phone with keeps pausing their story. You might be an overstimulated mom if…taking 4 kids to a loud restaurant an hour away on the hottest day of the Summer sounds like “something fun and different to do today!” You might be an overstimulated mom if…you’ve ever naively planned nap time around the promise of effective EV charging stations in Chanute, KS. You might be an overstimulated mom if…the anniversary date night you planned with your spouse was preceded by 2 nights of catastrophic dreams of getting sick and having to cancel the babysitter. You might be an overstimulated mom if…you’ve googled “spatial awareness while walking” because you’ve worried your kids have missed some elusive developmental milestone. You might be an overstimulated mom if…you’ve pretended to go to the bathroom so you could respond to 35 text messages. You might be an overstimulated mom if…you’ve ever changed a tampon with a baby strapped to your chest and a 4 year old outside the stall at an airport. REAL TALK GUYS. You might be an overstimulated mom if…you’ve walked door to door barefoot and in a swimsuit asking neighbors to borrow their phone because your arguing kids locked everyone out of the house. When all is said and done, your youngest names it “the best day ever!” This list was assembled by a group of women who via text message had me laughing at our collective expense for more than a full day. At one point, someone said “who run the world? MOMS!” and no truer words have ever been spoken about the Summer of 2026 (and perhaps all the summers that passed before it). All of this is documented a bit tongue and cheek, but the reality is that mothering middle grade children may be the most dysregulating experience of a lifetime and I actually do want to remember what it feels like. There’s true mystery in a love so fierce it would call a day “pretty good” that started with dog poop and ended with losing a contact in the pool after getting splashed in the face. This is the kind of love that defies logic, that on the outside makes not a lick of sense, but on the inside seems clear as day. It’s a holy, self-sacrificing, perseverance-requiring kind of love—a mothering love. And I’d not trade it for a million bucks. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. - 1 Corinthians 13:4-7, NIV #3…The Summer I Turned Preachy I’ve never seen the show The Summer I Turned Pretty and I hardly know what it’s about, so at the risk of sounding cringy or (insert adjective here), let me simply say that the title came to me as I was doing what I heard one writer describe as lived thinking. This is essentially when people who write, or perhaps all creatives, wander around their daily lives thinking, noticing, crafting in the interior spaces of their mind. I do that a lot. Anyway, it’s my way of communicating the significance of what I did in July for the third time ever, but for the first time on a Sunday morning. I preached to my beloved church from the Gospel of Matthew on Jesus’s

  2. Jun 1

    So I Won't Forget...May 2026

    Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a former therapist turned writer and theology student. In the early mornings and middle minutes while kids are at school, you can find me in my home office writing about hope, grief, spiritual practices, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for over 2 years called So I Won’t Forget. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline, something I talk about a lot. It’s my most read and most personal writing. I hope you’ll stick around! Prefer to listen? Let me join you on a walk via the audio narration of this post. You can find it right here in the app or wherever you listen to the We Have This Hope podcast. 🤎🎧🎙️ We did it. We survived what the internet affectionately (and accurately) tells me is now called May-cember. Just typing the hyphenated made-up word makes me cringe a little. Is it not equal parts humorous and equal parts sad that 2 months out of our calendar year are known for their hustle? Something to ponder as I stare out my window watching a red cardinal land on a hammock I haven’t once used this month. There’s a song by one of my favorite artists Jon Guerra that is based on Matthew 6 and I kicked it around in my brain while I watched that red cardinal hop around like the totally contented creature I aspire to be: I see the birds up in the air, I know you feed them, I know you care. So won’t you teach me How I mean more to You than them In times of trouble Be my help again. I would not categorize this month as a “time of trouble” by any means. In fact, it was mostly a time of great joy, but I did experience the full breadth of it such that, now at its close, I need to watch a few birds and remember who holds it all together. This is May(cember) and here are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…Forty years deep I won’t bury the lead. I turned 40 this month. I wrote some reflections on this milestone in my essay The Year of Whole Numbers, so I won’t belabor the significance of it,. But I also won’t breeze past it so as to ignore the spotlight or to downplay the joys of the day. In other words, there are a few things I want to remember. Dustin kept asking me what I wanted to do for my birthday and all I could think to say was 1) I do not want to be responsible for planning something and 2) I want to spend time with people I love. Not to make it about this, but I have lived in a world where someone I love deeply was here one day and gone the next. It’s conceptual for some, but for me it has been reality and as the experts say “the body keeps the score” so I shall not leave things unsaid if I can possibly help it. I decided I wanted to go on a walk with my Dad, go shopping with my Mom, and have dinner with a few people I love dearly and include the kids. Waking up the morning of a milestone birthday and navigating a whole day where people are acknowledging you, texting you, and generally making the day about you can feel a little bit strange, unsettling even for those of us who don’t mind being in front of a group. Our kids greeted me with the darling-est (I made up a word here, but you understand…) of morning hurrahs, cards and armloads of enthusiasm. When they scurried off to school, my Dad arrived with an orchid in hand and his sneakers laced for a 5K. We both caught the bug for walking a few years ago and the shared hobby rarely makes its way to joint efforts so I asked him if he’d walk the full loop of a nearby trail and grab coffee afterwards. I share this with humility and the understanding that there are many reading who either no longer have their father or never had him to begin with. I write my experience with tenderness in my heart and a true desire to acknowledge the utter gift I have in my father. He’s a delight. Supportive and intentional. Slow to speak and slow to become angry. Hard-working and affectionate. I have never known anyone to not love my Dad and what a sentence to be said of a person. May it be true of more of us! Thickly in my elementary school era, my life is chock full of logistics and we rarely get one on one time. It filled my cup to have space to hear him, ask him questions, and just converse about the things happening our lives. As long as we are able-bodied enough to make the 3.2 mile loop, I hope we’ll make it a more regular thing. Midway through the day, I decided I would tell a few friends things I love and cherish about them. Perhaps that would seem backward to them, but oh well. It wasn’t deflecting, but rather embracing the permission birthdays seem to give. To paraphrase the great Miley Cyrus, this is my party, I can do what I want. So I told one friend what a great leader he is, one friend that her presence in my life was a total answer to prayer, another that she has a pure heart, another that no one is kinder than she is, and another that she is my safe place. The next day I skipped town with my Mom for a shopping trip. Is this real life? We spent 48 straight hours together and the conversation never lulled. This must be the backlog of all the truncated conversations we’ve had over the last 11 years since I became a mother and start-to-finish conversations became scarce. The thing is I am a rich woman in the parent-department because my Mom is as much a gift as my Dad. She’s thoughtful and generous. Dependable and uncomplicated. I enjoy being with her and we both seem to appreciate that this alone is a rarity for some mother/daughter duos in our respective life stages. Suffice it to say, we had a ball. I submit all of this to you with a twinge of hesitation. I never want my words, and particularly my real life, to appear to be something that it is not, namely perfect. I have known stress and frustration and disappointment. I have dabbled in anger and resentment. And I have an earned my stripes in sorrow. If you’ve read any of my work, I hope you know this to be true and you hear my heart as I sift out what is worthy of commemorating for this moment in time. Forty years deep, I will say this: I have seen the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living and I will look for more of it in my second act. #2…slow middle spaces My husband calls it his “happy place.” This is one of the more demonstrative descriptions to ever fall from his lips so please allow me translate: this place must be magic for him. It’s a 20 acre plot of land just outside the city where he and my father-in-law have started to dream, scheme, chop stuff and build ponds. If you’re wondering how one builds a pond, you’re not alone. Just a few months ago, I also had a few questions about how this gets done. I grew up traipsing around my grandfather’s pond, but it existed long before I did so I was never privy to how it got there. Here’s a brief summary of what I’ve learned based on a couple of eyewitness accounts combined with a flurry of trail cam videos uploaded to a photo stream people keep showing me. Step #1) Dig a really big hole. Step #2) Wait for it to rain. Step #3) Check it constantly. Voilà! A pond in a matter of a few Oklahoma Spring rains! I may have left out a few details like dam construction or water flow, but generally it seems building a pond is the stuff of sand boxes and weather patterns. A few days ago, we ventured to the land with kayaks in tow to officially inaugurate summer and to scope out the herd of goats hired to clear out the underbrush of some densely wooded spots. Yes, hired goats bound by the geofenced tags around their necks doing the Lord’s work. We invited some friends to come explore and within minutes of their arrival, 7 happy children were full-on swimming in the pond. In the moment, I thought about all the gross stuff likely floating around the newly formed water hole—guys, please don’t swim with your mouths open! Also, we did not have enough towels…or swimsuits…not one swimsuit. In hindsight, what on earth did I expect? The sun was beginning to set over the horizon while I sat near a solo stove chatting with one of my best friends, a cold drink in hand, our kids cackling, maneuvering, digging and generally having the time of their lives nearby. Why would I ever interrupt such a delightful scene just because we didn’t bring enough towels? Forget the towels, Emily, and let the people play… While my “happy place” eventually needs to include electricity and modern plumbing, I think I can get on board with the slow middle space between creature comforts and adventure—between my iced coffee and my muddy children. One day they won’t want to jump head to toe in the pond. They’ll think twice about their freshly painted nails before digging them into all that red clay. They won’t want to ruin their favorite t-shirt. They’ll be more inhibited like their mom and they’ll consider the laundry more than the moment. Or maybe they won’t because they’ll remember how sweet it is to jump off a kayak with friends and play in the sun until their cheeks feel a little crisp. Maybe they’ll teach their mom to relax a little and pay close attention. Here’s hoping they do. #3…on character awards & cosmic thoughts Tis’ the season for school character awards. I remember my own elementary school’s version of this. Somehow I always walked away with something that felt boring like “industrious” or “responsible.” What 10 year old girl wants to be described as “industrious”? I have yet to meet her. I envied the kids who got “creative” or “artistic.” Somehow those words felt cooler than being the one your teacher could always count on to do the right thing—nah, I think it’s better to be the kid who’s really good at doodling. Over the last few years our

  3. May 4

    So I Won't Forget...April 2026

    Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a former therapist turned writer and theology student. In the early mornings and middle minutes while kids are at school, you can find me in my home office writing about hope, grief, spiritual practices, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for over 2 years called So I Won’t Forget. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline, something I talk about a lot. It’s my most read and most personal writing. I hope you’ll stick around! Prefer to listen? Let me join you on a walk via the audio narration of this post. You can find it right here in the app or wherever you listen to the We Have This Hope podcast. 🤎🎧🎙️ #1…on gerbils & bracing my core I own two gerbils. This is noteworthy only because I grew up in a home where animals were essentially not welcome. I know that sounds harsh, but I come from a long line of women who don’t like to touch animals. Dare I say, myself included. Inviting them to live in your home has generationally been a bit of a foreign concept—save the time my sister and I bought a miniature dachshund while my parents were out of town and they kept it long after we moved out. My grandmother once saved a cat who had gotten stuck in a car window and the real miracle wasn’t that the cat had been saved, but that my grandmother had been the one to do it. This story became family lore: The Time Meme Touched a Cat. Many moons have passed and I now find myself in a home with four pets: a fish, a big, hairy golden retriever, and two gerbils—Nutmeg and Snowball, to be exact. On the eve of our twins’ eighth birthday, we succumbed to what can only be described as relentless begging from our youngest daughter who clearly did not inherit the “it’s gross to touch animals” gene. As is often the case with mothers, I walked into PetCo that day propelled only by selfless love because, let me be clear in conveying, I had (and continue to have) zero interest in owning gerbils. Alas, we marched back to our car with two poorly assembled cardboard containers holding essentially mice that we paid money to bring into our home. I thought people paid to have mice removed from their home? Why does this feel backward? Once home we rearranged her room to fit a cage much larger than I expected and filled it with the essentials including toilet paper rolls. Did you know they eat the cardboard from paper towels and toilet paper because their teeth never stop growing? Like beavers, people, tiny beavers who live in the upstairs of my house. File this under things I never thought would be true about me: Gerbil owner. Mother of twins. Later that night I made the twins take a picture with me—one I’ve been taking since the day they were born. With a fifty pound kid on each hip, I had to bend my knees and brace my core just to hold them. I certainly couldn’t have walked up and down the stairs with them in tow like I used to. I went to bed looking at old pictures of them on the day they entered the world, both at just four pounds each, the tiniest babies I had ever seen. Eight years ago, this same core was effectively ripped wide open so that those two babies could enter the world and change the course of history forever. I’ll never get over the miracle—their lives, the fact that my core went back together, all of it. I marvel at their lives in the same way I marvel at those two little gerbils upstairs—things I never thought would be true of me and yet things that have settled into the reality of my life. I think my takeaway this year is that sometimes we learn to steady ourselves, to brace our core and hold rightly the things we’ve been given to steward, but often this wisdom comes on the heels of tremendous surprise, delight, and a healthy dose of motherly surrender. This month I found all of that at the strange intersection of kids birthdays and pet ownership. Here’s to Nutmeg and Snowball, may their surprises be contained to their cage and may they continue to bring us delight—but like a normal gerbil-amount of it. Let’s not get too crazy. #2…singing in public There are only a few times in my life that I have sung in public with a microphone. One of them was my senior year of high school when I played Sandy in Grease. You read that correctly—yours truly was Sandra Dee, circa 2004. To be honest, I had almost no business being cast in that role, but at the time I was the only blonde girl in the theater production class and I suppose that qualified me more than my actual singing abilities. These days I keep my singing to strictly low stakes environments and if you lived in my home or rode in my car, you would know that to be true. The older I get, the more I marvel at people who have the ability to perform or share an art form publicly. I suppose that’s what writing is although with writing I can hide behind my computer and I can edit. In my mind, there is really nothing more vulnerable than singing in front of an audience. And that is exactly what my son did this past week. He is the bravest kid I know, full of a confidence tempered by a humility I hope he never loses. For the last six months, he’s been taking ukulele lessons. It’s a totally delightful instrument and perfect for an eight-year-old trying to make his mom swoon over his future guitar-playing skills. For the recital this year, he decided he would both pluck and strum his song. But in order to strum, he would have to use his voice to sing the melody—something he, without hesitation, decided was a perfectly suitable thing to do. This boy sings all over our house, particularly in the bathroom because…well…acoustics and time. He spent the week leading up to the recital bellowing out the words to “Everybody Loves Saturday Night,” a simple song that will forever be embedded in the brains of the other four Curzons who live here and use the same bathrooms. On the night of the recital, he was the only performer to play an instrument while singing along and I was so proud of him. Sure, there were a couple of notes that maybe fell a bit sharp, but overall that kid marched up to the front, did his thing, and bowed ever so quickly as he ran over to sit back down. One of my favorite things about being a parent is knowing intimately the subtleties of your own child’s facial expressions. His little grin was the perfect blend of relief, pride, and the twinkle of a new neuropathway forming to say I can do hard things. It left me wondering today about whether my face ever tells the story of the hard things I have done or continue to do: parenting, seminary, generally trying to be a kind and healthy human. I don’t have to tell you, dear reader, that it’s hard work out there being a adult, let alone one who is hoping to mature in the ways of Jesus and embrace hardship as discipline. I suppose that’s why sabbath has been at the forefront of my mind lately. I need to rest in order to do hard things. And so the queue I’m taking from my kid this weekend is not necessarily singing in public, but rather embracing a little bit of rest so that come Monday I can do hard things again. Maybe this is why…🎵 Everybody Loves Saturday Night 🎵… #3…Lectio Divina I am writing this to remember a spiritual practice that is forming me right now—and to remind “Future Emily” that she has a repertoire of things to draw from depending on the season. Lectio Divina is an ancient, contemplative Benedictine practice used for centuries as a form of spiritual reading. For most of my life, I’ve approached Scripture through study—digging into context, language, translations—and this is far and away my favorite way to engage my imagination and intellect spiritually. I love to understand how the pieces fit into the whole and God has used this deep work to form me in ways still rippling effect in my daily life. But my life also includes groceries and laundry and school drop-offs and friendships that need nurturing and bodies that need moving and floors that need mopping and you get the idea because you live one too. Sometimes in-depth study can’t squeeze its way onto the plate like it used to when my only responsibility was maybe going to class on time. As I’ve leaned further into the Anglican tradition and into my seminary work thus far, I’ve discovered some contemplative practices that have opened a “side door” into spiritual formation—the most recent of which is Lectio Divina. In a recent class cohort, we walked through the process in small groups and it essentially looked like this: Someone read a passage of Scripture 4 times. Each time followed by 2 eternally long minutes of silence. Resist the urge to interpret or analyze. Invite the Spirit to draw out a word or phrase. Listen and reflect and receive. Here’s an article with significantly more detail. The app Lectio 365 is another good place to start. Or read through Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book (an OG favorite of mine) for a more thorough overview on this general posture toward reading the Bible. For those of us who grew up in the Bible Belt in the late 90s and early 2000s, the word “meditation” might carry some long-buried negative connotation not too dissimilar from that one time you tried yoga and weren’t sure if your mother would approve. I’m only slightly kidding. In general, there was a time in our Western evangelical traditions when mediation or the idea of listening, rather than studying inductively, sounded a bit too “woo-woo” for comfort. The reality is that the practice of mediation has been embedded in global Christian traditions for centuries and I can’t help but wonder if some of us have been missing out. Perhaps in this season, contemp

  4. Apr 1

    So I Won't Forget...March 2026

    March rushed in like the wind sweeping down the plains here in Oklahoma. We braced ourselves, and our flower beds, for the whiplash that often comes with fake Spring and premature Summer. Shakespeare says to beware. I say remember. This is (the ides of) March and here are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…when you don’t have a brother I did not grow up with brothers. In fact, the closest thing I had to a brother was the boy across the street who I now call my husband. My father is a gentle man and one who lived well with a house full of rowdy women. I still remember one Sunday morning as a teenager, in what can only be described as my glitter-as-eye-shadow era, I came bouncing down the hallway with purple lipstick freshly lathered on my lips only to walk straight into my Dad who had just donned a crisp white oxford shirt. My purple lipstick left a precise imprint on the pocket and it was immediately clear that there would be no salvaging things. I take a bit of delight in the fact that my son is living a similar experience. He has a mother who is by most measures into girlie things—although I have toned down the glitter—and God blessed him with not one, but two sisters. I tell him often that it takes a special kind of man to have multiple sisters, not many are cut out for it. He smiles knowingly and I’m reminded that he is much like his grandfather in both kindness and patience. But there are times I wonder what it would be like for him to have a brother. Over spring break, we traveled with some dear friends who have an opposite family makeup—mostly boys and one sister. We love this family so much and time with them is a breeze. Much of the weekend I spent smiling to myself over the fact that for once in his life, my son was not outnumbered. And oh the ways he embraced it wholeheartedly! Roller coasters, bare chests, basketball, mini-golf, stinky laundry all over the floor, and nearly constant eating. He shared a room with his buddy and one evening as I was helping tidy things up, I noticed they had hung their wide-brimmed golf hats on the lamps of their respective night stands in a sort of synchronous way—a subtle, but adorable gesture. It’s a funny thing to watch your kids grow and wonder about how your family dynamic is shaping them. What aspects of who they are were born when they came squealing out of the womb and what aspects are being formed as they sit in the middle seat to keep their sisters from fighting on the way to the grocery store? So much of my son’s temperament is perfectly matched for having sisters and I like to think God had this in mind as He formed him. There may be a time he resents his lot in this family of mostly girls, but I do hope he’ll come to wear it as a badge of honor. One that my husband is currently training for on the precipice of raising teenage girls and one my father wears like a medal of honor from his years in the trenches. If nothing else, he could not be among a more esteemed bunch in my eyes. #2…a helluva Costco run I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. Sometimes it’s sort of exciting to come home with a van load as if I am some kind of pioneer mother coming back to the fort with a big loot. I holler to my kids to come out and help me unload the wagon like I’ve been gone for days trading goods the next town over. But sadly it’s usually more of a modern day ordeal that takes no less than 2 hours, plus 30 minutes of driving and 58 trips back and forth between my kitchen and the trunk of my car. Because I bemoan going, I like to drag out time in between trips as long as possible so as to make subsequent Costco trips that much more logistically complicated. I have never spent less than $500 and if that gives you sticker shock, let me remind you that I have 3 elementary aged kids who insist on eating every day. Monday mornings at Costco are about as good as it gets. I don’t want to brag, but I am an executive member. It turns out if you spend enough money, it cues the cashier to ask you about an executive membership and I was asked every single time for a year until the lady behind me in line at Christmas said “oh honey, just do it…” So I did and every time I walk in an hour before it opens to shop in peace I think about that woman with great affection. On my most recent pilgrimage, the man posted at the exit took my receipt and started the performative counting they do to ensure you aren’t sneaking by with an extra bag of 500 tortillas. He was less rushed this day because it was a unicorn Monday and midway through his counting, he shook his head, smiled and said “You did a number….no, you did a helluva number.” Then he chuckled so loudly it echoed against the warehouse walls. I suppose I could have taken offense at his reaction to my cart, but instead he had me giggling the whole way through the parking lot. That’s right sir, I did do a helluva number today at Costco and frankly, I needed someone to name it. Sometimes the drudgery of Mondays is enough to ruin a whole week, then we layer on the heavy loads we’re all pushing around hoping to gain momentum, and it can sour a whole season. Most of the time we can’t shirk our responsibilities (the kids have to eat, remember?) so I wonder if what we actually need is some counterweight, something to balance the heaviness in the form of laughter and being seen by a stranger. The Costco employee wasn’t mocking me, he was validating me with a shaking head that came from what I can only imagine to be a place of knowing. I bet he’s pushed a cart or two in his day. So if nothing else, let people acknowledge your load, try to name theirs, laugh a little, and for goodness sakes, get yourself an executive membership. #3…a letter to the editor One of the gifts of growing older, or perhaps realities, is the ability to see things through adult eyes that you once only saw with a childlike sort of wonder. Turning 40 is but a breath around the corner for me and I’ve lately been thinking about my grandparents, wondering about their lives as real people rather than the heroic figures of my childhood. Most prominent among them is my Grandad who died when I was coming of age in the early years of college and who looms largely (and ever so fondly) in my imagination as a little girl. I recently drove back to the town where he lived his entire life and where as little girls my sister and I would trek into pastures unknown with our cousins—a bunch of city kids getting a taste of country life and relishing the freedom that came with galavanting around without parental supervision. Among the hallowed section line roads of Creek County, my Grandad served his community as teacher, principal, superintendent, farmer, realtor, and eventually for a brief stint, as State Representative. I remember campaigning wearing a red t-shirt that said “Vote for RC Lester, my Grandad” and passing out RC Cola to the locals. I suppose it tracks that the thing I remember most is the soda and the t-shirt rather than the fact that my grandfather was respected and beloved by his community such that he beat out the incumbent on his first bid for office. Recently, I stumbled upon a local newspaper article from 2005 among a pile of other nostalgic things being organized at my parent’s house. It caught my eye because it had obviously been laid out to read and the opening line to this Letter to the Editor said “Dear Editor, RC Lester wore many hats.” A entire half page had been devoted to espousing not so much the accomplishments of my grandfather, although those were certainly mentioned, but more so his character as a friend and educator. Grandad died rather swiftly to pancreatic cancer in 2005 and this letter had obviously been written with great care by a longtime family friend who had known him both personally and professionally. We treasured conversations with him and trusted his sage advice on just about any subject, personal or otherwise. RC spoke not so much with authority as reason. He was not one to shoot from the hip. You might ask him a question and experience several moments of silence as his hands mused about rubbing his palms diagonally. We often quoted him and to do so would settle an issue. - Steve Lalli, The Bristow News, September 14, 2005 I smiled through tears later that night as I read the article aloud to my husband and oldest daughter, remembering some of his familiar and timeless mannerisms, ones that I see reflected in my own father now and find so utterly endearing. The beauty in discovering this gem of an article is that it confirmed for adult Emily what little girl Emily knew to be true of her grandfather. That he was kind and serious and uncomplicated and sincere and, most of all, lion-hearted. It is a strange thing to build a life where people most dear to you are not known by those who were once most dear to you. I wish my children could know Grandad, that they could experience him waiting at the gate for us to pull up wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, hear him whistle as the cattle come running up the pasture because they know his voice, or watch him mercy kill a turtle who swallowed a fishing hook like it’s just a regular Tuesday. I suppose this will always be one of the great mysteries of the Kingdom to come. Will we get to know, really know, those who shaped our lives before they started? Will we one day hug their necks in a knowing sort of way and will their eyes see the story of our lives as we get to reflect on theirs? I’m banking on it and in the mean time, I’ll try my best not to forget. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. - 1 Corinthians 13:12 To my dear WHTH regulars, I feel like I have been somewhat MIA this semester and I attribute that almost entirely to seminary classes. I recently finished a New Test

  5. Mar 5

    So I Won't Forget...February 2026

    Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a former therapist turned writer and theology student. In the early mornings and middle minutes while kids are at school, you can find me in my home office writing about hope, grief, spiritual practices, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for over 2 years called So I Won’t Forget. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline, something I talk about a lot. It’s my most read and most personal writing. I hope you’ll stick around! What am I supposed to do with you, February? The more iterations of So I Won’t Forget I churn out over the years, the more I notice the subtleties of the seasons. More than any other month, February is somehow both confusingly too short and requiring of more grit. Dare I say that February is littered with more holding out for the next thing than even late August? I think it does and I’m bothered by it every year as I sit to write these essays. This is likely the reason you’re receiving February’s edition in early March. That and the paper I had to write for seminary last week that conjured up many long-buried feelings of paper-writing dread and hovered squarely on my shoulders until late Thursday when I finally pressed “submit.” I wonder what long-buried feelings tried to sneak through the cracks of your exterior this potentially grueling or boring February? Or what sat on your shoulders so comfortably, you’re just now beginning to notice it was heavy after all? Whatever the case for you, I wonder if you might practice a little remembering this month. Find a quiet space, take a deep breath with your hands laid open in your lap, and ask God to bring to the forefront of your mind the moments when you may have missed His goodness. By way of the Spirit, I’m confident you’ll find them. Here are mine. This is February and these are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…A million questions with a side of bad breath There’s a speed by which my youngest daughter navigates the world. We used to joke that she had an on/off switch. She was either moving her body or she was asleep, no in between. As she’s grown from toddler to full-blown kid, her busyness has developed a bit more nuance, as personalities have a tendency to do. She can melt your heart with a fierce running to jumping hug and turn right around to incite a riot over where everyone is sitting at the dinner table. Meek she is not and I say that with a sort of womanly pride. Give me all the strong daughters. Except no one warns you that the real work of raising strong daughters is cultivating your own layer of thick skin because their strength comes with a side of brutal honesty. One that lacks the scaffolding of age and the skill of what professional communicators call “the compliment sandwich.” That’s right, no free compliments unless they want to borrow something from your closet, look at your phone, or want you to stop for a slushie on the way home from school. Last week, after spending the majority of the my time hyper-focused on a seminary paper, which is code for I left it all on the field intellectually-speaking, I solidly switched to mom-mode and spent the remainder of my afternoon chasing everyone around the house. Sometimes literally, but more metaphorically. I had almost nothing left to give when my youngest found me in the fleeting quiet moment of unloading the dishwasher and fired off a round of questions that went something like this: Her: Can I have a snack? Me: What have you had already? Her: I don’t know. Can you see if so and so wants to play? Me: Get something from the pantry, no candy please. They aren’t home from school yet. Her: Can I have a popsicle? Can you see if so and so wants to play? Watch this! (Cartwheels across living room) Me: I can text their mom. No popsicle, get something from the pantry. Her: What’s for dinner? Can we have mac and cheese? Will you play with me? Me: Chicken sausage and veggies. You had mac and cheese for lunch, remember? Her: Uuuuuuggggghhhhh, there’s nothing to do. Will you play with me? I’m going outside. Anyway, did you brush your teeth today? If I were to re-write the story of that conversation, I might have her say something along the lines of “Mom, I see you working really hard this week. Why don’t you finish unloading the dishwasher while I grab a string cheese independently from the refrigerator? I’ll even shut the door when I’m done. I’m headed outside to peacefully invite my siblings to play! Love you, Mom!” But that is a world I will never live in and the reality is I’m not sure I actually want to. It’s the real zingers in life—the ones that do occasionally feel like a kick when you’re already down—that remind us we’re not machines and neither are the people who live in our homes. This essay is not going the way of machine critique, but it is a plug for the irreplaceable resource that is our humanity, namely the humanity of our children who offer to us the kind of refining you can’t buy in a store or ask a computer to generate. Had I brushed my teeth that day? Yes, but in truth it had been a solid 10 hours and I most certainly had bad breath. Did I need to be reminded in that exact moment? Who’s to say other than the one whose lack of filter keeps me humble? No one could have delivered the feedback quite like her. #2…Out of the depths of Flu B Speaking of humanity, a moment of silence for the flu that raged war on my body and the bodies of many people I love this past month. I hate being sick. And sure, the obvious response is to say no one likes being sick, but please hear me when I say I truly haaaaattttteee being sick. I’ve spent years cultivating an attitude of defiance toward the whole notion of needing to cancel my plans and do the annoying work of convalescing. I have an advanced degree in “it’s probably just allergies…” and somewhere out there I have a husband reading this and rolling his eyes. Alas, February got the better of me and I’m here to report it was not just allergies. It was Flu B and it kicked my butt. I tumbled head first into the hazy world of intermittent naps and sweaty sheets and wondering what time it was and whether the sun was shining. I had a post-viral headache for days long after I resolved enough was enough and proceeded with my regular life in spite of feeling like I’d been run over. As I type this I’m reminded of the many I know who suffer from chronic pain—my sister was one of them—and I have zero room to talk. My body managed the viral onslaught as is customary of a healthy immune system so I will not pretend to hold my two weeks of angst up as a memoir on suffering. But I did walk away with a slightly changed perspective on what it looks like to slowly exhale my need for care from others. That’s what it felt like—a slow exhale. Breathe in: There’s so much I need to do. Breathe out: Yet all my needs are met. Isn’t that the great irony of being a person safe within the Kingdom of God? There is truly much to be done, a great work ready for our participation, yet it is simultaneously a work headed in the same redeemed direction whether we hop on board or not. I think the grace of the occasional sickness might be this exact reminder. At least, it was for me this month and so my earbuds are attuned to the words of this song while I go about my day free from a headache, yet keenly aware of my need for God to hold my whole life, physical body and all, together in the center of His love. #3…Sideline siblings & another note on basketball We attended approximately 438 basketball games this season. That’s a rough estimate based largely on feelings rather than actual data (my kind of math) and it translated to a ton of what I affectionately call sideline sibling activities. I know this rings true for all younger siblings and perhaps a few oldest who aren’t yet able to drive or stay home alone. We have all of that going on at our house so I like to think we’ve mastered the art of grabbing shoes, audiobooks, doodle pages, and a snack while toppling into a van already littered with the things we just shoved into our tiny, random bags. Toward the end of the season I started to pay closer attention to what was happening behind all the literal and logistical noise. Here are a few things I observed… * Makeshift pickleball using an old ball and a rope. * 4 boys piled in closely over the pages of a Space book. * A million trips to the bathroom with friends. No one is more knowledgeable about rural Oklahoma upper elementary bathrooms than my kids. * Collaborative doodling. * Smacking. * Sharing of Doritos—sadly the most healthy snack choice available. I’ll never understand the nacho cheese. * Baby doting of the most precious kind. It’s magical to be only 7 and think you’re the cool older kid. * Yelling and then asking why we’re yelling. * Shared celebration and shared disappointment. * Learning each others’ names and then remembering them the following week. Last week I listened to the most incredible podcast episode at the behest of my husband and one our dear friends. It’s an interview with Ben Sasse, an impressively credentialed former senator and university president who recently announced a terminal pancreatic cancer diagnosis at age 53. I’ll not be able to do justice to the episode by written summary, but suffice it to say this one will make you feel things. When reflecting on his ongoing work of “redeeming the time,” Sasse said this: “You can play a lot of basketball in the last 60 seconds…” I spent all week thinking about it and I’ve come to the conclusion that if that’s not true, what are we even doing? This season of sporting

  6. Jan 29

    So I Won't Forget...January 2026

    Welcome friends to the first installment of So I Won’t Forget for 2026! If you’re new to We Have This Hope, you can find out what this is all about right here. If you’re an OG (or my mom who happens to be the real OG), I’ll be keeping this introduction shorter than normal because I have a lot of words for you today. These essays are the overflow of a grateful heart. I never finish writing them without being astounded by the goodness of God in my ordinary life. This is the consistent return for the spiritual discipline of remembering. I hope you’ll savor them as you read, laugh a little in between, and consider doing this work yourself. Prefer to listen? Pop in your headphones and take me with you on a walk. Read all the way to the end for an update on the podcast and an announcement about what’s coming next week! #1…I Have a Dream cake My eldest has an affinity for baking. I know what you’re thinking…what an adorable hobby! And you’d be correct because baking at age 11 does check a lot of boxes. It’s tech-free, creative, translatable to useful skills, delicious, and positions her in the center of the house while working independently. Sprinkle in a little math and it’s basically the unicorn of pre-teen hobbies. When we were drowning in toddlers, people espoused to me the wonders of kids old enough to use the kitchen on their own and that’s turned out to be somewhat true. It’s quite nice when they can grab a snack, eat it on their own, and then throw the trash away—your only involvement is to affirm the whole process. That’s much better than wiping the floor underneath their high chairs for the umpteenth time, but what I found missing from all the laud about childhood kitchen independence was any warning about the cost by way of character development. So dear reader, I will not perpetuate the myth that as children grow more independent in the kitchen they will not require your assistance. They will and it looks a lot like emotional coaching with a side of very clear verbal instructions. Results may vary, but I offer up a cautionary tale about a Nutella cake that cost me 5 hours and ended with the entirety of Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech. Parents of toddlers, consider yourself warned. I found her in the kitchen donning an apron and a sidekick from across the street. When I inquired about the setup, she told me she wanted to bake a cake to share with neighbors on MLK Day. How could I possibly object to such a noble endeavor? I nodded along and snagged my iced coffee to sip while chatting with friends in the sunshine of my driveway. Flash forward to a time later that evening when the sun was no longer shining and the cake was still not done. For unknown reasons, our top oven won’t reach temperature unless you chose specific buttons and if someone doesn’t know this, say the 11 year old baking a two layered cake, it can result in wildly different textures and colors. By 6PM we had one perfectly golden, rounded layer and one light beige and very dense layer. We also had an abundance of tears about the disparity between them. Cue the aforementioned emotional coaching. Half an hour later and with much encouragement, she began tackling the Nutella-based icing while insisting that she did not, I repeat DID NOT, need any help from the adults. I learned shortly thereafter that the recipe had called for 24 ounces of salted butter which she melted in the microwave for slightly longer than recommended. More tears for her and deep breaths from me over this darling cake that appeared to be stealing our evening. Ever the hero in these situations, Dad stepped in to calmly demonstrate how to ice a two-layer cake even though I’m fairly confident he’s never actually done that before. And by 8PM the whole thing was heartily complete and resting under the shelter of a glass cake stand. The next day she called the neighbors over for cake and stood proudly in the corner of our dining room holding a book she’d brought home from school. With an air of poised classroom teacher, she read slowly and deliberately while we ate, holding open the pictures for all to see in between each paragraph. Halfway through her reading, I realized she was sharing Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech word for word. This wasn’t just a cute picture book, this was his infamous speech peacefully calling out injustice and affirming the equality of all people made in the image of God. When we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: “Free at last! Free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!” These hallowed words came out of my girl’s mouth while mine was full of Nutella and I wondered in my heart what compelled her to facilitate such a staunch reminder of Dr. King’s legacy. Was she parroting what she’d seen through teachers, neighbors, friends, and family? Was she responding to a nagging sense of justice that she seems to have accompanied her out of the womb? Or was the Spirit of God calling these beautiful sensibilities into the next phase of maturity, a phase that produces that perfect blend of gentleness and wisdom and measured action? Please let all the answers be yes. When I set out to be officially laid-back about a cake that cost 5 hours with a side of my sanity, I hadn’t anticipated what I’d find on the other side of it. I mostly imagined that I was fostering confidence in the kitchen and encouraging creativity, but it was so much more than that. If I’d jumped in to rescue my mostly white kitchen, I might have missed my daughter rehearsing how to use her voice to speak truth in love, to name injustice, and to rally others to join her in these holy efforts. I’m still finding remnants of splattered Nutella that I could begrudgingly wipe up while wondering about a day when I won’t have a kitchen filled with little creatives or I could count them the markings of a sacred space where people grow into maturity. In some seasons that maturity looks like how to balance a spoon all the way to your mouth and in other seasons, it looks like how to turn curiosity into overflowing compassion. What a privilege to wipe the floor for all of them. #2…How basketball teaches us to be human We’re in the thick of basketball season at our house which mostly means calculating the time it takes to get from one rural Oklahoma town to the next. In a real life conversation a few weeks ago, I legitimately did not know what town I was in—somewhere that started with a C and was big enough to have an elementary basketball team, but otherwise no clue. Basketball is a new sport to me. I never played growing up and didn’t pay much attention to it in a college or professional level either. March Madness wasn’t a thing around my girlie household, but I married a Kansas Jayhawk and that changed the basketball landscape for me going forward. Save the time Dustin finished a game standing on top of our coffee table blaring All I Do Is Win by DJ Khaled, I’d say we’re fairly laid back fans. We make brackets, snuggle up to watch fourth quarters, and play out in the cul-de-sac a little. I’m the least qualified person to be chronicling the greatness of this game, but sometimes a mid-life convert can shed a fresh light on old things. We’re learning so much at our house through this fundamentally lovely game so allow me to indulge a few metaphors for the sake of remembering a formational and precious season. * Pass…You cannot do it all on your own. Sometimes the only way to get the job done is to surrender to the help of another. * Run…It’s one thing to be restful, but at some point our legs were made to run. Use speed at the right time and, for goodness sakes, don’t walk when you’re supposed to be running. * Arms up…There are times when you’re still in something, but you’ve also done all you can. This is when you calculate your risk and simply have to go arms up. It’s anything but passive—it’s strategic and utterly important. * Block…Defense wins championships so we’re told…set a boundary, be respectfully firm, and don’t compromise your values. * Foul…Some are personal, some are technical. You’re allowed a few with a bit of grace, but there’s a limit for the safety of others and the purposes of the game. Forgive when you’re fouled. Extend a hand to the one you foul. And get back to work. * Dribble…As is the case many times in life, you can’t skip certain steps or you’ll have to walk it all the way back. Pressing forward is not the same as barreling forward without a little skill. Don’t forget to look up. * Get open…There’s always repetitive and important work to be doing even when you aren’t the center of attention. Stay curious, move around, and when the time is right, call for it. #3…Not a book review “Having and defending and celebrating the Bible instead of receiving, submitting to, and praying the Bible, masks an enormous amount of non-reading.” - Eugene H. Peterson, Eat This Book: A Conversation in the Art of Spiritual Reading This is not a book review. It will be more akin to a love letter than anything else because twice now I’ve read it and twice now I’ve teared up at the urgency of it all. I closed its pages last week and, standing in our kitchen, emphatically told Dustin “We have GOT to read the Bible more” and I didn’t mean it in the way you’re likely thinking—more devotionals, more quiet times, more regularity out of rigor or duty. I meant we need more of it like we need more vegetables. We need to eat more of it. Get it into our bodies and do the slow work of digesting and metabolizing it so that we are differ

  7. 11/20/2025

    Embracing Advent & Rediscovering Christmas with Jen Ludwig

    “I think there are a lot of well-intentioned preparations that can so consume us that we forget why we’re doing them.” - Jen Ludwig Did you know Advent is not a 25 day countdown to Christmas? Don’t worry, I am not about to knock the Charlie Brown chocolate Advent calendar we’ve all been eyeing at Costco this week, but I am going to nudge you to rethink how you interact with the season. Do you know what Advent means? Or its significance in Church history? Have you ever wondered if there might be something richer and deeper to the whole practice? Or perhaps longed for a more intentional approach to it for your family? I mulled over all of these questions a few years ago while we were in the thick of babies in high chairs. There had to be something more for us than hurling a Fisher Price baby Jesus to the ground on repeat and reading a few Christmas board books. I started reading more about the liturgical calendar and discovered a rich, seemingly hidden world of rhythms that the Church had been embracing for hundreds of years. We bought a wreath and candles. We invited friends to dinner 4 Sundays in a row. We sang in a tiny dining room, read Scripture, recited repeatable words and all while being clumsy and imperfect. This year my 11 year old asked me with a sense of urgency and longing: “Mom, we’re doing Advent dinners again, right?” She could have asked me a great many things related to Christmas festivities, but this was her first seasonal utterance. Talk about a parenting-ROI that I’ll be tucking away for when I feel discouraged. I share that not to boast as if our family has it all together—we simply do not—but to prove that rhythms over time shape the way we think and feel. They invite us into a story that’s been written for all of time and they form us into people with eyes to see our part in the work of God’s in-breaking kingdom. Today’s episode is such a timely gift because Advent starts Sunday, November 30th and I’m chatting with Jen Ludwig, author and worship leader, about her beautiful book Embracing Advent: Rediscovering Christmas in the Chaos. Jen shares accessible ways to incorporate Advent into our lives with daily reflections and Scripture focused on preparing our hearts for Christ’s coming and grounding us amid the chaos of the season. This one is for the planners out there (hello, me) who need to pause before we fill our calendars with the things that don’t really matter. I hope you’ll tune in NOW before the start of the season. Links to connect with Jen, order her book, and a few other Advent related resources are included below! * Order Jen’s book here: Embracing Advent: Rediscovering Christmas in the Chaos * Find her on Substack, Instagram, and Facebook. * She has a YouVersion devotional perfect for this season! * You heard her mention how she broke the Christmas story up for her kids when they were little. Here’s the resource for replicating that in your own home! * The Andrew Peterson album we chatted about and you MUST listen to if you grew up on Rich Mullins. Or if you didn’t…it’s beautiful stuff. * And the Fisher Price nativity that Jen hilarously called the “you can mess with this” nativity set. A few Advent resources for learning more that I’d heartily recommend: * Ashley Tumlin Wallace on the practice and history of Advent * Kendall Vanderslice and any of her work around Advent and baking. * Danielle Hitchin’s book Sacred Seasons. I consult this year round. * Behold the Lamb of God album - blare it all season until your kids have memorized the entire line of David and you weep when he sings “Gather round ye children come, listen to the old, old story of the power of death undone by an infant born of glory…” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe

    Embracing Advent & Rediscovering Christmas with Jen Ludwig

  8. 11/13/2025

    Liturgical Living: A Conversation with Ashley Tumlin Wallace

    What in the world is the Church calendar? I thought it was just Christmas, Easter, and regular days. What does it mean to have a liturgical home? Or better yet, could someone please explain the word liturgical to me like I’m five? Why would this even matter to a life of faith? It feels rather stiff and unemotional. For the one who has ever pondered these questions AND for the one who already knows the answers—this episode is for you. At one time or another, I’ve been both. I discovered the work of Ashley Tumlin Wallace earlier this year via my favorite place on the internet (Substack) and I was blown away by her depth and her accessibility. I knew right away that I wanted to invite her to the podcast because I wanted more people, namely those I love who listen to the show, to know about her work. I don’t think there’s anyone out there talking and teaching more beautifully about how to center our lives around the liturgical Church calendar. And this is holy work because it trickles down from the quiet spaces of our hearts that long to be a part of something grander than what we can see with our eyes. It settles into the every day rhythms of being a real live person and syncs us up with the movement of Christ’s Church around the world and for all of time.  “We were moving with the church that we went to on Sundays and then we were moving with Christians from all over the world.” - Ashley Tumlin Wallace from The Liturgical Home In today’s episode, you’ll get to hear parts of Ashley’s story and her heart behind The Liturgical Home. I hope you’ll settle into it like you would settle under a fuzzy blanket with a cup of tea. Maybe throw in some dark chocolate if your day calls for it. Either way, I know you’ll walk away with some rich resources and fresh ideas for how to cultivate a more intentional practice around the Church year. You can connect with Ashley via Instagram or directly at www.ashleytumlinwallace.com. Check out this post she created about Christ the King Sunday. Remember, this day is right around the corner on Sunday, November 23rd this year. Also, she shared about the Daily Office app and here’s the place to find it. Soak it all up because Advent is right around the corner and next week’s guest is a total delight. Jen Ludwig will help you consider how to embrace the season with intentionality and restfulness. She’ll also challenge you to cross some things off your list and don’t we all need to hear that? Can’t wait for you to listen… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe

    Liturgical Living: A Conversation with Ashley Tumlin Wallace
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About

WHTH exists to equip others in the art of remembering God’s work in their lives and the practice of telling others about it. wehavethishope.substack.com

Information

  • Creator
    Emily Curzon
  • Years Active
    2022 - 2026
  • Episodes
    66
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Emily Curzon
  • Show Website
    We Have This Hope

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